What if I’m not a writer?

I’m one of the broken souls trying to find comfort,

I’m lonely and carrying the world’s burden,

But I give hope as I walk through the valley of the optimists.

What if I’m not stronger as you thought?

I’m a depressed pretender that knows the power of poetry,

And devastated to see my bleeding pen moving alone,

Hence I toss and turn each night, I’m alone.

What if I take my life and leave my supporters?

Will they hate me on my death?

Will they read my work like they used to?

Or I’ll be buried with my arts?

What if I’m not depressed?

I’m playing around my acting game,

Proving the words of the naysayers,

Oh! Maybe I’m doomed!

I lost myself.